


Of X's and Exes

by artreactor



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angry Kissing, Break Up, First Kiss, Kissing, M/M, Platonic Kissing, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, seriously this entire fic is about kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 07:33:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artreactor/pseuds/artreactor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Otherwise titled 'The six times Dirk and Jake kissed (but not quite)'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of X's and Exes

**Author's Note:**

> (rated for vague unhealthy relationships and cursing)(also mild inaccuracy of timelines)
> 
> (also on tumblr : http://tmblr.co/ZoFxetzmmYMl)

Roxy teaches him text speak when you’re all twelve for ‘shits and giggles ;)’.

You’re not impressed. Colloquial speak is something you find exceedingly tiring. There is a set way to spell words and figuring out what Jake is saying most of the time is difficult without trying to wade through a sea of bad spelling on top of a terribly obtuse vocabulary. You find it even more irritating that he decides that you are the perfect test subject as opposed to his all too helpful teacher.

You tell him on a Tuesday what you think of his newfound habits and you don’t need to be on video call to know that he has visibly deflated and you feel too awful to notice the strange airy feeling you get when your thoughts are all jumbled at the sight that the last thing he messaged you before logging off was a string of ‘x’s.

You decide three years later when you are a bit more knowledgeable about said airy feelings but in no better a state of mind upon seeing your best friend lie in a pool of her own blood on her bedroom floor that those string of ‘x’s was your first kiss and feel disgusting as you place a red box over your head that you even found time to consider that.

-

It seems like years later. In reality, you’ve fucked time over so much that you’re not sure how to measure it anymore. You’d probably find out a unit of measurement in a couple of seconds if you weren’t distracted by the sight of Jake English, covered in your blood, kissing you.

(okay so the first thing you noticed was actually the volcano because holy shit it was erupting like crazy and that was a little more distracting that your mangled head getting mouth mauled by someone with no finesse.)

(okay maybe that was a lie. Volcanoes are fucking lame anyway.)

Jane looks horrified and you’re not sure whether it’s because Jake is kissing you or because he’s covered in your blood and holding the mangled head of her third favourite friend (unless she counts her father or Calliope as a friend in which case you are rapidly falling down her list.) Roxy is also visibly shocked but seems to get over the blood and gore of the scenario for a few seconds to wolf whistle loud enough to get Jake’s attention.

(He kissed you for a whole ten seconds which doesn’t sound like much but turns out to be quite a bit when you’re holding your breath. You were never good at swimming.)

-

He asks you how you feel about him before you leave him on watch to get some sleep.

You reply in a jumble of metaphors and cleverly disguised admittances and every verbose longwinded tale your exhausted mind can come up with. You think you’ve done enough to avoid the question when he finally holds his hand up for you to finish on what you’re sure is the eighth minute of your rambling.

"That doesn’t answer my question, Strider," he says and he leaves you with one word on your tongue and it feels so strange to be almost speechless.

"Yes."

And yes must be a completely accurate answer for the question ‘how do you feel about me’ because Jake just laughs and doesn’t ask you to elaborate (probably because he’s scared neither of you will ever get to bed if you start talking again) but he doesn’t say anything more of it other than-“You’re infuriating sometimes.”-and you’re not quite sure what that means but you’re scared to ask him to elaborate for far different reasons.

When he’s sure you’re asleep you feel him kiss you on the forehead and it doesn’t feel real and you’re sure that’s why he does it.

You don’t sleep for days in case he does it again.

He never does.

-

For his sixteenth birthday he asks you to escort him down into the deepest tomb he can find on the Godforsaken planet.

Two days later, you ask him for a kiss and he raises an eyebrow and shuffles awkwardly, wringing his hands, but complies, lips puckered out like a child and you want to use the palms of your hands to press against his cheeks so all the air he has puffed up in them dissipates. But you don’t.

Instead you lean in and feel like you’re twelve years old kissing your bathroom mirror because this is what first kisses should feel like but they shouldn’t be so fucking cold.

-

He leaves in the middle of the night after the most minor of arguments.

(He’s the one who calls it a row and you think it’s cute that he honestly thinks that’s how people argue, all hushed tones and distant disagreement. You knew you were right so you didn’t even answer him half of the time and his voice never raised above a dull childish whine about not getting his way.)

You chew the sides of your fingernail off on your right hand’s forefinger. You message him one lined texts every hour on the hour for some sense of time management and control. You shove your head into the nearest water supply, not caring if it’s radioactive, because your face is too hot and your throat is too dry. He ruins your sense of order, no matter where he actually is. Your compulsions are driving you to pluck stones out of the tarmac by the time he finally comes back, knees red and elbows scratched.

You’re not even angry so you don’t know why you grab his wrist and pull him down sharply, vertigo acting on him so that he can’t react fast enough when you bite down on his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. He murmurs an apology you’re not sure he needs and you can’t sleep, can’t even close your eyes, in case he leaves again.

Which is why you know he does three weeks later.

-

His hands are in your back pockets and his teeth are against your chin because he can’t stand up straight let alone aim a kiss.

You wrap an arm around his waist and hoist him so he’s over your shoulder, still a giggling mess, and wonder what the importance of an ‘x’ is if it feels no different from the usual thing.


End file.
